A Study In Romance
by MizJoely
Summary: In which Sherlock Holmes meets the woman destined to become his wife, one Dr. Molly Hooper. Set after the two movies and accepting the premise that Irene Adler was, indeed, really murdered by Moriarty. RDJ/Loo Brealey Sherlolly.
1. An Inauspicious First Meeting

**Sherlock Holmes: A Study in Romance**

_From Sir ACD's online biography:_

_…[Sir Arthur] Conan Doyle wrote a play about Sherlock Holmes...The very successful American actor William Gillette having read the script, asked for permission to revise it. Conan Doyle agreed, and when the actor asked permission to alter the Holmes persona, he replied, "You may marry him, murder him, or do anything you like to him."_

_A/N: So this is me doing anything I like to him – marrying him but not murdering him. The character of Molly Hooper is temporarily borrowed from BBC's "Sherlock" and the other characters are temporarily borrowed from the wonderful Robert Downey, Jr. & Jude Law "Sherlock Holmes" movies. Oh, originally posted on tumblr and heavily revised and edited and corrected since then!_

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**From the private journals of Dr. John H. Watson**

The first meeting between my good friend Sherlock Holmes and the woman who would become his wife was, to say the least, not an auspicious one.

I had stopped by Baker Street to announce the happy news that my dear wife, Mary, was expecting our first child in six months' time, only to discover Holmes clattering down the stairs from his flat, struggling to adjust his cravat whilst simultaneously stuffing his unlit pipe into his coat pocket. "Ah, Watson, just the man! Come along, we don't want to be late!"

"Late for what, Holmes?" I called out as I turned and exited the building, pulling the door closed behind me.

As always, a Hansom cab appeared just as Holmes stretched out his hand, and soon we two were ensconced in the stuffy interior, on our way to St. Bartholomew's Hospital, where we were apparently to interview the newest pathologist on staff, one Dr. M. Hooper.

"Stamford sent me a message," Holmes explained when I breathlessly demanded to know why we were going to that esteemed hospital. "He's asked me to evaluate this new fellow's skills and give my opinion as to his suitability for the work. Your opinion will be of some small value as well," he added, directing a sly grin in my direction.

I ignored the gibe, having grown used to his manner in the many years we'd known one another, and concentrated on the gist of his statement. "A new pathologist, eh? Surely he's hired pathologists in years past; why does he require your opinion of this one in particular?"

Holmes shrugged, pulling out his pipe and fussing over it. "Isn't it obvious, Watson?" he asked after several puffs of noxious smoke had thickened the air around us.

I couldn't help the sigh of annoyance that escaped my lips; to Holmes, everything was 'obvious'. I gave a pointed cough and waved my hand about to clear the air, with no success. "No, Holmes, it most certainly is not," I replied firmly. "Please, spell it out for me."

He glanced at me, huffed out an annoyed sigh of his own, and deigned to respond. "Stamford clearly has some uncertainties regarding this new hire, and wishes me to help ascertain if he's made an error in bringing this new man on staff. The message arrived shortly after this morning's papers would have been read by the good doctor, who is as much a creature of habit as you are in the mornings, and today's headlines should explain the rest."

A bomb had exploded the previous evening at a meeting hall where a well-known group of suffragettes were about to gather. The newspapers had delighted in describing the anxiety and distress suffered by the ladies, none of whom had thankfully entered the building as of yet. The more liberal newspapers had decried the act while at the same time gleefully pointing out that the building was actually owned by a member of the House of Lords, one who was most vociferous against women's rights. "You believe Stamford is concerned that this new employee is somehow connected to the bombing?" I asked, puzzling it out as best I could.

Holmes beamed at me as though I were a prize pupil. "Well done, Watson! I see my methods have finally rubbed off on you! Yes, Stamford's concerns were made quite clear in his message." Clenching his pipe between his teeth, he reached into his jacket pocket and whipped out the piece of paper in question, handing it to me to read.

"Come by St. Bart's this morning if convenient on a matter of some urgency. I have some concerns regarding our newest pathologist, Dr. M. Hooper, that I wish to discuss with you after you have had the opportunity to perform a skills evaluation and perhaps an interview. Yours, Dr. M. Stamford," I read aloud.

"Clearly he has had second thoughts and hopes that I can discover some reason to revoke the offer of employment." Holmes' eyes were gleeful as he gazed at his steepled fingers, raised to his lips in a familiar manner, indicating that his remarkable brain was already hard at work on the matter. "As New Scotland Yard has had no interesting cases to present me of late, I agreed to share my expertise, although it hardly matters one way or the other if the fellow turns out to be an ill-advised hire."

"Holmes!" I protested, aghast at his callous indifference to the possibility that he might be about to ruin some poor, unsuspecting man's life. "Surely it would be preferable if you were to discover that Stamford has instead found his new employee to be a perfectly respectable physician with no connection to the bombing!"

Holmes shrugged indifferently. "Either way, as I said, it makes no difference in the end. It is simply a small puzzle to be worked out, undoubtedly in less time than this cab ride shall take. Now do be quiet, Watson, I wish to think more on the matter." And he closed his eyes, resting his head on the back of the cab.

I recognized the signs; further attempts at either protest or genial conversation would be ignored equally, or else met with sharp words meant to quell any attempt at speech. I therefore did as he requested, albeit unwillingly, and the remainder of the ride was spent in silence.

oOo

Upon our arrival at St. Bartholomew's, or St. Bart's as Stamford had so whimsically abbreviated it in his message, we were met by the man himself, who it appeared had been most anxious to greet Holmes personally before sending him to the basement morgue where the new pathologist awaited him. He greeted me effusively as well, and congratulated me when I belatedly remembered that I had originally gone to Baker Street to share the good news regarding my wife's pregnancy. I had a moment of discomfort in knowing that I had actually forgotten my excitement over the matter in light of Holmes' enthusiasm for this very visit, but set it aside, knowing that my darling Mary would certainly forgive me for getting so caught up in the possibility of denouncing an anarchist – or, more agreeably, confirming a man's innocence.

Holmes of course ignored the announcement, concentrating instead on deducing things about Stamford. "Ah, you were so agitated about this morning's newspaper accounts of the bombing that you were unable to break your fast until a few minutes ago, and left your home in too much of a hurry to allow your wife to fuss over your appearance as she usually does." He followed that statement up by brushing some crumbs from Stamford's jacket and straightening his tie, his eyes flickering toward the stout man's ink-stained fingers before once again meeting his gaze. "I can see that you are quite concerned that this new pathologist is connected to the bombings," he announced as he started down the corridor leading to the stairs. "You feel you've made an error in hiring him, and seek my expertise in either confirming this or, as you would much rather hear, eliminating your suspicions."

Stamford gave me a bemused glance before hurrying to follow Holmes' energetic strides. I also hurried my steps, interested to hear Stamford's response as it had been on my mind as well. "It's not that I'm worried Dr. Hooper will be a danger to the hospital; quite the contrary, Holmes. I'm concerned that others will perceive Dr. Hooper as...well, you'll soon see," he concluded in an indeterminate manner as Holmes bounded down the stairs.

I paused when Stamford did, giving him a curious look. He merely shook his head and gestured for me to accompany my over-enthusiastic friend. "You'll see what I mean, Dr. Watson. I look forward to discussing the matter with the two of you when Holmes has concluded the interview, and I'll wait for you in my office." He hesitated, then added: "Just...please do your best to keep him from saying anything too harsh, if you can."

With that enigmatic statement, he turned and retraced his steps, leaving me to follow Holmes, my mind buzzing with questions and half-formed theories as to why our old friend was behaving so oddly. I believed him when he said he felt Dr. Hooper was no danger to the hospital, but if he wasn't concerned about the man's political leanings or connection to the bombings, then what, exactly, could the problem be?

The answer to every question I had was answered as soon as I reached Holmes' side. He thrust open the door to the morgue, and was rewarded for his impulsive efforts – the man never did remember that he should first knock when entering a room – by the sound of a dismayed shout and a loud crash as the ladder that had been leaning against the wall fell to the floor.

A dismayed shout which my confused mind quickly recognized as being distinctly feminine in nature. This fact was confirmed by the sight of the woman Holmes had caught in his arms as she fell. She was a petite, auburn-haired, elfin featured young lady, wearing a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles that had slid down her nose, giving her a rather endearing air of scholarly dishevelment. Her arms were loosely entwined around Holmes' shoulders, and he held her easily, as if she weighed little more than the air through which she'd fallen.

As he gazed down at her, I saw an expression on Holmes' face that I'd only ever seen directed at one other woman, the late Irene Adler; a certain softness coupled with a keen interest. The woman in his arms wore an expression of dazed interest that very much matched his own, and I felt a smile spread across my lips at the sight.

"Well," Holmes said after he and the young lady had spent a long moment gazing at one another, "although the circumstances are not ideal, I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Dr. Hooper."


	2. Interactions of a Scientific Nature

_A/N: Thanks to everyone for following and favoriting!_

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I must admit that I gaped a bit when Holmes identified the young lady in his arms as Dr. Hooper; I had taken her for a nurse or perhaps a secretary sent down to the morgue laboratory to fetch something for one of the doctors or hospital administrators. I waited for Holmes to replace the young woman on her feet, but the moment stretched out and I felt compelled to clear my throat in the hopes of breaking whatever silent rapport the two were currently sharing as they gazed into one another's eyes in a manner closely resembling that of lovers reunited rather than strangers making one another's acquaintance.

Dr. Hooper started a bit and flashed me a guilty look before returning her gaze to that of my friend. I noted that her eyes appeared to be a shade of brown quite similar to his own, and her hair was a becoming shade of chestnut brown that suited her fair complexion. "I believe I've recovered enough to be able to stand on my feet, Mr. Holmes," she said as she returned her gaze to his, sounding more than a bit breathless.

As he set her on her feet, she said, "May I ask why you felt it necessary to barge into my laboratory like this, Mr. Holmes?" Then she gave a small gasp, turning to face me as if just remembering my presence in the doorway. She turned and held out her hand after shoving her glasses back up her nose. "Hullo, I'm Dr. Molly Hooper. You must be Dr. Watson?"

I returned her smile and took her dainty hand in mine, unsurprised by the firmness of her grip. She was no simpering miss, after all. "Yes, very pleased to meet you, Dr. Hooper," I responded to her query. "I understand you are new to the pathology department?"

She nodded and smiled. "Yes, I've only been working here for a week, and I'm very grateful to Dr. Stamford for hiring me…" Her voice trailed off and a frown marred her features as she turned her attention back to Sherlock. "Mr. Holmes, did Dr. Stamford ask you to come here today?"

My eyebrows rose in an expression of surprise as I exchanged glances with Holmes, who seemed as surprised by the shrewd question that had just been asked as I was. Molly folded her arms across her chest, her frown deepening as she repeated her question in a challenging manner. "Well, Mr. Holmes? Did he?"

He studied her as if she'd suddenly morphed from a quaint curiosity into an intriguing scientific discovery. "As a matter of fact, Dr. Hooper, he did," he finally confirmed. "May I ask why you suspected that, rather than assume the obvious, that my presence here was due to a case?"

Her posture remained defensive, as was her voice as she responded, "I read the newspapers, Mr. Holmes, I'm aware of the horrible bombing that occurred last night, and that the targets were suffragettes. It isn't a great deductive leap for me to understand that Dr. Stamford is concerned about my presence here attracting equally horrific attention. I am one of the first female medical professionals St. Bartholomew's has hired outside of the nursing staff, after all."

She sounded proud of her accomplishment, and justifiably so. Women had only been allowed to study medicine since the founding of the London School of Medicine for Women in 1874, a mere twenty-five years previous. Most graduates went into fields traditionally considered the realm of the female, such as obstetrics, so for her to have entered into pathology – and to have obtained a position as a prestigious institution such as St. Bartholomew's – meant her credentials must be impressive indeed.

Holmes studied her a moment longer before breaking into a delighted grin and turning to face me. "Watson, I do believe it will be a pleasure rather than the chore I originally feared to weigh Dr. Hooper's potential liabilities for Stamford!" With that rather remarkable – not to say insulting – statement, he turned to the diminutive pathologist and offered his arm, along with one of the charming smiles he so seldom mustered. "Allow me to escort you to Stamford's office, Dr. Hooper, where we can conduct our interview in relative privacy."

She deliberately ignored the proffered arm, folding her own across her chest and lifting her chin in an attitude that conveyed both stubbornness and disdain in equal measures. "There is more than adequate privacy here, Mr. Holmes," she said coolly. "No one is likely to disturb us, unless you're worried that Mr. Patterson will suddenly spring to life and return to the killing spree his accidental drowning brought an end to?"

That rather remarkable statement seemed to bring Holmes up short; in the process of scowling at her for her cold refusal, his expression changed to one of intrigue by the time she finished speaking. Dr. Hooper appeared not to miss a single nuance, focused as she was on his face. A smile curled her lips, brightening her expression as she launched into a description of the injuries to the body lying beneath a sheet at the far end of the room.

It was a bit unnerving, seeing so delicate a creature speaking so frankly of such matters as bodily gases and bloating and how repeated usage of a garrote left tell-tale ligature marks on the fingers of a habitual user of that particular weapon, but Holmes appeared quite comfortable speaking to her of such matters, and I kept my opinions entirely to myself as I observed the two of them.

She seemed a likable, intelligent young lady, very pretty even with her hair swept up into a no-nonsense bun and wearing a plain gray skirt topped with a simple white blouse. Having never witnessed the phenomena of my good friend being thus distracted by any woman other than the late Irene Adler, I decided it was best if I were to stand back and watch to see what would unfold next.

Holmes had bounded over to the covered corpse while Dr. Hooper spoke, reaching out as if to expose the body but then, most remarkably to my mind, hesitating and turning toward her as if asking her permission. She smiled and nodded, and I entered the room to join them, feeling very much the intruder as their two heads bent down and Dr. Hooper began murmuring her findings to my friend.

"The Shropshire Slasher," I heard him announce with a great deal of relish as she finally fell silent. I made my careful way toward them, pausing only to right the stepladder Holmes had knocked over when he opened the door. Whether he was giving me the identity of the unfortunate on the table or simply pronouncing the name aloud for his own satisfaction was of no consequence, although I continued to be amused by the childlike joy he was currently exuding, as if Dr. Hooper had presented him with one puzzle which he'd thought solved…only to present him with a further conundrum. Or, perhaps, a Christmas present, I amended silently as Holmes' enthusiasm continued to grow.

"Yes, you're quite right, Dr. Hooper, the signs are obvious. Yet you hesitate to present them," he added, his tone abruptly sobering. "Your conclusions are correct, the methodology employed impeccable, and yet still you wait for Dr. Stamford to confirm the facts you've unearthed before contacting New Scotland Yard and apprising them of your findings. Why is that? Is it because you do not wish to draw attention to yourself at this moment, that your concerns for your professional reputation are currently being outweighed by your desire not draw attention to your position and thus possibly negatively impact the hospital? An admirable character trait, I suppose, if your ultimate goal is to always fade into the woodwork, but hard an auspicious way to launch the successful medical career you are clearly destined for!"

I withheld a groan, although I could feel my teeth grinding; trust Holmes to both compliment and insult a lady at the same instance. Before I could remonstrate with him, however, Dr. Hooper raised her head and met his gaze steadily, glaring as angrily as I'd ever seen Holmes himself manage when his own expertise was put to the question. "Mr. Holmes," she bit out, her hands balling into tiny fists that nonetheless appeared more than capable of laying my friend low should she choose to berate him physically as well as verbally, "I may be, as you say, destined for a brilliant medical career, but I am also mindful of how things work in the real world, the world the rest of us are forced to live in. While you are off breaking the rules and having adventures, some of us must work quietly behind the scenes, allowing others credit if necessary in order to maintain the level of independence we've fought so hard to gain!"

Holmes bestowed upon her a look of absolute delight, and I was as astounded as the petite woman in front of him when he reached out, clapped his hands to her upper arms, and bestowed an enthusiastic kiss to her cheek. "Dr. Molly Hooper, I will be delighted to inform Dr. Stamford that, in spite of your suffragist proclivities, that he would be a fool ten times over to dismiss you from your post. I see that you require no man to fight your battles for you, and wish you well in your future endeavors!"

With that, he stepped back, belatedly removed his hat, and gave a deep sweeping bow with not the slightest hint of mockery to it. Then he turned, with a "Come, Watson! I'm sure your Mary is wondering why your quick visit to my flat has taken so long!" and swept out the door.

Dr. Hooper was gaping after him, her expression one of mingled shock and curiosity. I offered her my hand and said my good-byes, thanking her for her time and congratulating her on identifying the criminal that had terrified so many people, first in his home county and then here in London.

As I turned to leave, however, I was brought up short as Holmes popped his head back into the room and called out, "Dinner at 8:00, Dr. Hooper, if you would be so kind. Shall I retrieve you here or at your boarding house on Montague Street or would you prefer I meet you here? I'm certain your landlady will attend your cat as she usually does when you have to work late."

He gazed at her expectantly, and after a moment spent simply staring at him, she stuttered out a response that sounded very much as if she were attempting to decline his invitation – if invitation such could be termed. Once again I privately vowed to speak to Holmes at the first convenient moment about his social skills or lack thereof, when Dr. Hooper astounded me yet again by falling silent, tilting her head to one side, then finally smiling and agreeing that it would be easier if Holmes were to meet her at the end of her shift as her home was no doubt further away than St. Bartholomew's from wherever he intended the two of them to dine.

He offered her a sharp nod of the head, then glanced at me and barked out, "Come along, Watson! Stamford is waiting for us!" Then he disappeared once again from the doorway, leaving me to follow, as usual, in his overly enthusiastic wake.

My mind was admittedly reeling as I hurried to catch up with him. "Holmes!" I called out as I finally reached his side, at the foot of the stairs leading up to the more salubrious environs of the hospital. "Would you mind explaining just what happened in there?" I nodded my head toward the door to the morgue laboratory.

He gave me a puzzled look as he began taking the stairs two at a time as was his wont when overly enthused about something – generally a case, although there appeared to be no such enticement here. "Dr. Hooper discovered that the body brought in this morning belongs to that of the infamous Shropshire Slasher, I concurred, and will duly report her findings to Lestrade and his group of idiots at New Scotland Yard, giving full credit to Dr. Hooper, of course, as is her due. It is the least I can do, after she afforded me so refreshing and unexpected an afternoon!"

In any other man I would characterize his words and actions, coupled with his obvious enjoyment, as an indication of romantic interest. However, this was Holmes, and my only thought was that somehow he thought it best to continue his investigation and analysis of Dr. Hooper outside the hospital. However, when I expressed that opinion, he once again gave me a puzzled look and said, "Don't be ridiculous, Watson; I'm about to tell Stamford what a prize she is in terms of her value to the hospital. Dinner is simply…"

His voice trailed off and a faraway look came into his eyes as we reached the top of the stairs. He paused there, one hand tapping a rapid tattoo against the brass bannister as he appeared to consider his next words. I waited with nearly breathless anticipation to hear what he would say next, and was not disappointed when he finally mumbled, "She is an…intriguing woman, isn't she, Watson? Worth getting to know better in a social setting?"

I gave a sober nod in agreement, although internally I fear I was smiling broadly, barely able to contain my glee at the thought of Sherlock Holmes willingly escorting an attractive young woman to dinner, with no actual case involved. Mary would be thrilled, and I busied myself arranging my impressions of the afternoon's events in my mind as we reached Stamford's office.

Mary would be very, very pleased indeed, especially if the evening went well.


	3. An Explosive Situation

In retrospect, I should have foreseen the events that occurred shortly after our arrival in Mike Stamford's well-appointed private office, deductive genius or not. However, since Holmes also failed to predict the events that would so disrupt our lives for the following months, I can be forgiven for failing to do so as well.

We had just settled in to discuss Dr. Hooper's situation, with Holmes waxing near poetic in his praise of the woman's forensic skills (oh, Mary would be thrilled, no doubt about it, having long since believed my friend needed to find the right woman to help settle some of his more, er, exuberant excesses) and assuring Stamford that she posed no threat to the hospital when it happened. A muffled thump and dull roar that my shocked ears quickly translated into the sounds of a distant explosion.

When the shock of the event released me from its grasp, I arose from my seat to find that Holmes had already vacated the room. Stamford and I hurried after him, both instinctively heading for the stairs leading down to the basement level where the morgue and associated laboratory were located.

As we both feared and anticipated, the laboratory where Holmes and I had left Dr. Hooper a scant half-hour earlier was the target of the explosion. I feared we would find the mangled remains of the young woman amongst the debris, and was relieved to find her alive – albeit unconscious – and cradled once again in Holmes' arms as he emerged from the smoking ruin of a room. "She discovered the explosive device and had the good sense to place it into the sink, covering it with water, and was on her way out when it went off," Holmes explained as he gently lowered her to the corridor floor to allow me to examine her.

She was bleeding from numerous cuts but thankfully no debris appeared to have lodged in her flesh, nor did a cursory examination reveal any signs of broken bones or injuries to her spine, although her head injury was worrisome. I was forcefully reminded of a previous explosion, one that had nearly taken my life and that of Holmes, but pushed aside such unpleasant memories, reminding myself that I had a patient to attend to. "It appears when she turned to leave she had the foresight to snatch up a body bag and use it to protect herself. Clever girl," Sherlock murmured, looking down at her with a half-smile on his lips that I would be sure to quiz him over.

Later. "Stamford, we'll need a gurney for Dr. Hooper," I began, but Holmes shook his head.

"No need, I'll carry her," he said, and proceeded to lift her slight form into his arms again. There was no arguing with the stubborn set of his chin or the determined glint in his eyes, so I didn't bother, merely rose to my feet and hurried after him, with Stamford leading the way. He breathlessly informed us that there was no one else on duty at this time, which was a relief as I had not been looking forward to searching the wreckage for others less fortunate than Dr. Hooper.

She regained consciousness as we hurried up the stairs; I heard Holmes murmuring what sounded suspiciously like reassurances to her when I caught up to them. Stamford had opted to remain behind and assist the emergency responders and concerned onlookers who had been disturbed by the blast, directing his staff in their endeavors to confirm that no other persons had been in the basement at the time. Although I had no official connection to St. Bartholomew's, I received no protests when I appropriated an empty operating theater and rather peremptorily demanded the assistance of one of the nurses who had come to see what the commotion was about.

Dr. Hooper, in common with every other physician I have ever treated, insisted that she was fine and needed only to 'clear her head'. She was far more concerned with the state of the pathology lab and the damage that must have been done to the Shropshire Slasher's corpse than to her own injuries. I expected Holmes to join her in mourning the potential loss of evidence in the case, but he surprised me by brushing aside Dr. Hooper's concerns and insisting, in gentle but firm tones far from his usual abrupt manner, that she allow me to attend to her.

In the end she suffered only a few gashes that required stitches, and I did not fail to notice that Holmes held her hand the entire time. He caught me stealing glances at their entwined fingers more than once, and each time merely scowled at me as if daring me to comment. I wisely refrained, at least until Dr. Hooper had been admitted – much against her will, and only after her strenuous protests – to be kept under observation overnight. We bid her farewell as one of the St. Bartholomew's physicians took over her case, commandeering both her injured form and the nurse who had assisted me so ably, but not before I was able to thank the latter and admonish the former to do as her doctor prescribed in order to properly recuperate from her ordeal.

I was astonished to see Holmes drop a quick kiss to her forehead before she was wheeled away on the gurney a young orderly had brought to the operating theater, and cheered at the sight of the pretty blush that spread across her cheeks as she murmured her good-byes. Her expression was wistful as she was removed from our presence, and I hid a smile at the equally wistful expression that crossed Holmes face as she vanished from view.

Before I could comment on his unusual behavior, Holmes sprang to my side, virtually dragging me out of the doors and down the hall to the basement. "Come along, Watson, we must examine the evidence before any more idiots trample through the wreckage."

That was the Holmes and I knew and, occasionally at least, felt a brotherly love for. His eyes were bright and glittering with what I recognized all too well as detectival fever; he would not rest until he discovered the identity of the bomber (or bombers) and brought them to justice. If his actions seemed a bit more enthusiastic than normal, I recognized that he felt a personal connection to this crime…and I suspected that he was particularly motivated by what I perceived as his genuine attachment to Dr. Hooper.

The thought of my friend forming any sort of a romantic attachment other than to the volatile and, sadly for Holmes, deceased Miss Irene Adler, still struck me as decidedly odd, when I had time to consider the idea. Holmes had always scoffed at romance, had done his very best to dissuade me from my own marriage – and yet, in the end, he had forged not merely a truce with my beloved Mary, but a growing friendship as well. Perhaps the loss of Miss Adler and his newfound affection for my wife had opened a crack in that carefully guarded heart of his, so that when he found himself facing a woman who appeared, in her own way, to be as remarkable as either of those two ladies, he was ready to acknowledge his readiness to form a lasting romantic attachment of his own. One not founded on deceit and the thrill of outwitting one another, but rather a love that could ease some of the profound loneliness I had always sensed in my friend.

But all that, as I said, would come with time and contemplation. At the moment I knew only that Holmes was determined to find the culprits responsible for this and presumably the previous night's bombings, and merely filed away the remarkable fact that he'd waited until he knew that Dr. Hooper was well and in capable hands before turning his attention to the site of the attack.

I found him clambering over the debris near the far end of the lab, muttering to himself and scowling at the shattered remains of the porcelain sink. "The detonator, Watson, we must find it, it's the key to this whole thing," he announced as I made my gingerly way toward him, mindful of the instability of the still-smoking chamber. Stamford had already spoken with Inspector Lestrade, who had been assigned to investigate the bombing, as well as the firemen who had been dispatched, and Holmes and I were cleared to perform our own investigation now that the room had been declared free of any other victims. Aside, of course, from the unfortunate corpse of the late Shropshire Slasher, which hadn't survived the blast nearly as well as Dr. Hooper. At least the grisly remains had been removed before our return to the scene of the crime.

Lestrade held his men back until Holmes had finished his investigation, a courtesy I do not recall the man extending in the past, but then, it had been many months since I had assisted Holmes on a case and I had no idea of the nature of their relationship at this point in time. After the distasteful matter of the Reichenbach Falls case involving Professor Moriarty, Lestrade had been far more distraught than I would have credited him at Holmes (apparent) death, and I could only conclude that their professional relationship remained cordial in spite of Holmes' overly dramatic return. It certainly hadn't hurt things when Lestrade had been given full credit for the apprehension of Moriarty's right-hand man, the former army colonel Sebastian Moran. That case, in fact, had been shortly after Holmes' return and the last one I has assisted him with.

Lost in my musings, I was taken off-guard when Holmes uttered a triumphant, "Got it!" and held up a few twisted shards of metal. The elusive detonator, I presumed, and had that presumption confirmed seconds later when Holmes began picking his way toward Lestrade, who held out a small canvas sack into which the items in question were carefully deposited. "Give them to Morse, he's your best explosives man," Holmes instructed Lestrade, as if he were the senior inspector and the other man a mere uniformed officer. However, Lestrade merely grimaced at Holmes' high-handed manner, to which he'd long been accustomed, and shouted for the sergeant that had accompanied him.

Holmes turned to me, a grim smile on his face as he clapped his hands together and rubbed them briskly. "Very well, Watson, I believe it's time for us to leave the rest of the evidence-gathering to the good men of New Scotland Yard." He glanced back at Lestrade sharply. "You'll have Morse contact me as soon as he identifies the bomber?"

Lestrade nodded. "Before I even notify my superiors, Holmes, you have my word on it."

"Good. We'll be off then, having a look at the site of yesterday's bombing. I fully expect Morse to confirm that both events were the work of the same person." Without pausing for breath, he turned back to me again. "Shall we check on Dr. Hooper before we leave, Watson? Your Mary will want a full report of her status," he added as I gaped at him.

Then he strode out of the room, once again leaving me to hurry after him, although not until I'd exchanged glances with a very confused looking Inspector Lestrade. "The young lady who was caught in the blast," I hurriedly explained. "Holmes wishes to, er, question her further, I believe." Then I left as well, leaving him shaking his head and muttering to himself, a not unfamiliar reaction to Holmes and his caprices.

Speaking of caprices…I was astounded that Holmes was once again delaying his investigation in favor of checking up on Dr. Hooper's health. Astounded and, I am not ashamed to say, rather pleased to see my friend showing such interest in a young, pretty, intelligent, unattached woman. Who, before this unfortunate incident, had agreed to meet Holmes for dinner. Oh, Mary would be quite cross with me indeed if I neglected to take in this second post-explosion meeting between the two, so I sped up, catching Holmes just as he was in the process of interrogating Dr. Hooper's attending physician.

I quelled a potential quarrel between the two men when the doctor protested that his patient was sleeping and should not be disturbed. Holmes of course disagreed, but I managed to distract him by reminding him that the best thing he could do for Dr. Hooper at this time was to find the man who had attempted to kill her – if, indeed, that had been his goal, and not merely disruption of her working space.

I chose my words deliberately, knowing Holmes would scoff at me for even theorizing that Dr. Hooper had been collateral damage and not the actual target.

As expected, he rounded on me with a familiar glint in his eye, born of both contempt and frustration. "Don't be a fool, Watson," he snapped. "Clearly Dr. Hooper was the target, else the bomb would have been much larger…which," he concluded abruptly, after peering closely at my face, "you already know."

By then Dr. Hooper's physician had slipped away, satisfied that the two of us would not be disturbing his patient after all, a foolish assumption on his part as Holmes immediately turned away from me and entered her room. I followed, quietly remonstrating with him to allow her to sleep, only to discover Holmes had stopped just inside the door.

The low light of the room showed Dr. Hooper's sleeping face, so much younger looking in repose that she appeared nearly a child, especially with the blankets covering her petite form and her hair loose around her face. The expression on Holmes' face as he beheld her, however, was far from paternal. Indeed, I have rarely seen him so implacable, so resolute, as he was in that moment. It was as if he was memorizing her features, storing them in his mind in order to better remember what it was he stood to lose if the bomber was not stopped.

I felt those things, that night, and then felt foolish for thinking such sentimental thoughts about a man who had endeavored throughout his life to divest himself of the softer emotions. I once again thought of The Woman, and how her death had affected him, and hoped that Dr. Hooper's fate would be a kinder one.

"She was the target, Watson," Sherlock said softly. "Not the lab, and not because she is a suffragette. That bombing last night was the smokescreen, meant to make this attack seem part of a larger pattern."

Then he turned and pushed past me, out of her room, and as always, I found myself hurrying after him, both perturbed and oddly comforted by Holmes' statements.

The game, as he would undoubtedly have put it, was on.


End file.
